


Fancy a Cuppa?

by BakerTumblings



Series: Eyes Wide Open [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allusion to Sad Things that can happen to Original Characters, Blended Family Challenges, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-08-20 00:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20219101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: John sits down with a cup of tea while he sorts through some interesting and thought-provoking memorabilia.Or, a vehicle in which to connect some random ideas. This piecemightbe probably the final installment of Eyes Wide Open, in which John's past becomes part of their post-season 4 family. And together, they all figure it out.Insert usual disclaimer here that this piece will make more sense if you have read at least the first one. <3





	Fancy a Cuppa?

The desk there in the sitting room in 221B seemed to grow in chaos and disorder with each passing day, and although John pointed out the mess to Sherlock a few times, apparently it was only bothering John. So one morning when Sherlock was out, and both kids involved in their regular, respective school days, John took advantage of the soothing quality of a hot cup of his favourite tea blend and set aside a few minutes to tackle the job. He tried quite valiantly to keep the pile that Sherlock would have to eventually look through to a very bare-bones minimum. In all likelihood, it would end up still in a pile somewhere - and still very likely annoying only to John. 

Some of it was easy - bills and statements to the appropriate divider or shredded. Scraps of notes that made absolutely no sense he perused then discarded, much of it ended up in the rubbish bin. The books that had been mixed in with the stacks were returned to the bookshelf. 

Some of the paperwork, though, a couple of photographs, a few documents, gave him pause, and he reflected on not only how the papers came to be on their desk, but the meaning behind each one.

++

The top of the pile was fairly benign, but made him smile at how important it had been at the time, none-the-less.

The idea represented by what he held in his hand, had come kind of randomly, happenstance, a surprise discovery. At the park, an encounter, an observational comment from someone who had witnessed what they'd seen that day. _He's talented. Amazing,_ the man had said.

The morning had been cool, overcast, a beautiful day that beckoned them to spend it outdoors. A quick trip for picnic lunch supplies, a trek across a few tube stops, an out-of-the-way park with lots of paths, trails, trees, grass, open areas, benches, and a small playground to entertain them all if they tired of other activities. John had thrown some bubbles, a frisbee, a blanket into a small backpack while Sherlock had carried lunch - complaining about the difference in weight from time to time, until Sameer had apparently grown tired of hearing it and took the pack to put it on his own shoulders.

The face Sherlock had made, being upstaged by an eight year old, was absolutely priceless. And more than a bit chagrined. He'd taken it back at the first opportunity and not said another word about it. John found himself looking away so that Sherlock wouldn't see the victorious grin on his face as he did mental high fives with Sameer. And tried not to let Sherlock know about it. The narrow-eyed death glare came anyway, the moment John risked a glance over.

The park was worth the journey. It wasn't crowded, and they'd found a myriad of things to do there. Rosie enjoyed everything about it from the food to people-watching to the play equipment. Another family arrived, a bunch of kids in tow, set up a short distance away. They'd brought a football along, and Sameer couldn't stop watching, staring, observing, as the newcomers had marked off a small field and set up a modified game.

One of the adults noticed Sameer watching. A quick comment to one of the boys perhaps a little older than Sameer, and they paused a little to jog over. "Wanna play with us? It's just football. Teams, sort of anyway. Just for fun."

Sameer cast a hopeful, almost pleading glance, at John, who nodded. Sameer's smile was bright and hopeful. And slightly timid. "I've never ..."

One responded, quickly, "We'll show you. It's fun." The other chimed in, "You'll like it."

Sameer smiled. With a "Yes please," he wandered over.

And he was sucked in, the kids including him, explaining things, watching. Kicking, passing, shooting, running - Sameer was shown something, tried it, did very well most often from the first go 'round, and became quite engaged.

They weren't the only ones watching.

John and Sherlock watched too, and what had started as a curiosity became more difficult to look away from. The boy showed signs of some innate, athletic prowess for the sport. Fast, footwork, running, hand-eye coordination really quite impressive. And he scored on the makeshift goals almost every time he got close, choosing to place the ball away from the other team's keeper. Some of the time it was all about his speed, that he outpaced the others, but just as often it was the aim, the precision, and the ball handling, his control.

The families had become more social by then, and that was when the man who'd made the suggestion to approach Sameer, observed from John's side, "Wow, he's a natural. If he's not playing in a kids football league, you might want to look into that."

And so the seed was planted. And Sameer said he was at least interested in popping by to see what organised football would entail. John made a few phone calls, and the following week, Sameer had been invited to try out an evening practice just to see if he liked it. The coach had been very impressed, outfitted him with loaned shin pads, and then pairing him up with an older, taller teammate for the evening while keeping a careful eye on him. At the end, the coach thanked him for coming and when Sameer responded that it had been fun, the coach had given John a practice schedule and game rotation. "Hopefully you'll be able to come back?"

Sameer nodded, though he was somewhat less animated than John had expected. "That'd be nice."

They said farewell to some of the other team members, and John waited until they were out of earshot before asking Sameer what was troubling him.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You enjoyed tonight? It was fun?"

"Yes."

"And you're interested in going back?"

There was a faint, almost pained shrug. "If you want."

John's slow steps came to a stop. "It's not about what I want."

"I guess."

"All right." John didn't press for a reason, and Sameer had agreed. "All right, so I guess we should stop and pick up a few things on the way home."

He nodded but was quiet until they were standing in the sporting good store and Sameer was looking even more confused, his puzzled expression seeking out John for an explanation.

"Football boots. And shin pads."

"Why? I don't need gear just to watch."

It clicked then for John, that Sameer didn't understand what was happening. "All right, sorry, something got muddled then. Do you like playing football?"

"Yes. Of course. It was wonderful."

"So the coach, Mr. Matthews, signed you up for the team."

"What?"

"He wants you to play. To be on the team."

"But, I thought ... He said try it out."

"Right. That was tonight, and he invited you back."

"He said come back. He didn't say play." John watched Sameer blink a few times, thinking, still puzzled, "Did he?"

John smiled at Sameer even as he felt badly about the miscommunication. "He wants you to play." Sameer was quiet so he continued. "We have the schedule, the list of when to be there. They practice every week. In the evenings. And there are football games just about every weekend."

Sameer's already big eyes went absolutely huge, and his smile was not far behind as the news finally sunk in. "I get to do that again? For real?"

John chuckled at his use of the phrase, for real. Sameer'd heard it often at school, and now that he understood, he worked it into conversation from time to time. For some reason, it amused John every time he did it. "Yes," he said, ruffling at Sameer's hair. "For real." With another kind smile, John continued, "So if you're going to be a real player on an actual team, you need some gear. Boots, shin pads." John considered the display again. "A ball so you can practice."

The shoe selection had been overwhelming, and Sameer had tried on a few pairs, but each time John asked if he liked them, if those were the ones they should buy, he would hesitate, and then slowly shake his head no.

"Are they uncomfortable?" Sameer shook his head, and John just wasn't quite sure what to make of his reaction. "Do you want another colour? You like these black and white ones? Or the bright yellow?"

"No, it's okay. I don't really need them." Looking down at his own trainers, just regular court shoes and wriggling his feet inside of them, Sameer asked with a curious expression. "These are all right." John watched Sameer's eyes flick between them and then to the bright red sales price tag before shaking his head. And something occurred to him, and he realised a possible reason why Sameer was being so reluctant.

A few questions, a gentle exploring and teasing of details, and Sameer finally admitted, "Mama always said, one pair of shoes. That we never needed more. And I already have these _and_ another pair at home."

"They'll help you with running, and with ball control, keep you from sliding if the pitch is wet. And the shin pads," John added, gesturing to Sameer's shin, where the padding had been on the set that Sameer had borrowed at practice, "are required. You'll need them too so you don't end up with big bruises."

He wasn't convinced, just stood there in the aisle in the vast display of football boots making a face.

"Does it make you sad, remembering your mama?"

"They put her shoes in a bag when she went in the hospital. They had big ... holes."

John pictured their closets back at the flat, the abundance of shoes, and could easily recall the number of pairs that Sherlock would discard if they were slightly worn, scuffed, or had the audacity to be boring to him.

"My shoes didn't have holes, but mama's ..." Sameer looked at John with an intensity that almost pleaded with him to understand, to fix it. "I had new ones, but mama didn't."

John wasn't sure how to respond to that. Most of him wanted to rail at the unfairness of the situation and hug Sameer right there in the store. "I'm so sorry." He settled for kneeling, taking Sameer's hand, and speaking slowly, "I know you miss her." He could see the moment his son seemed to move back into all right territory. "I wish I could have helped you take care of her when she wasn't feeling well. We definitely would have bought her another pair of shoes." John wanted to say 'bloody shoes' but knew it wouldn't make either of them feel better. Sameer nodded, the faintly sweet crooked smile that he seemed to have picked up from Sherlock somehow. "You know," John said, looking back at the racks of boxes, "I'll bet she had a favourite colour. Maybe we could choose that for your new football boots?"

They ended up going home with the bright yellow pair. And shin pads, and a practice ball, all matching. 

Football quickly became a passion. He carried a ball to school with him when he could, and on nights when there wasn't practice, or when it wasn't raining, he almost always asked to go out and kick the ball around, or for a partner to keep practicing John's least favourite, headache-inducing skill - heading the ball - with whomever would accompany him. He hung his football kit on a hanger in his closet.

The season was over, and the memorabilia that had ended up on their desk included the practice schedule, which John binned, and his football photos, which he slid into a file folder. The team photo was set across from Sameer's individual photo in the little cardboard frame. In the photo, he was grinning, one foot up proudly on the ball, the uniform worn proudly. Underneath the photo was the certificate that had been presented to him at the end-of-season victory party, given to Sameer as the most improved player on the team. The trophy, of course, was next to his bed.

++ 

John filed the football papers and photos in one of the desk drawers before returning to the stack. A few papers further down in the pile, and John came to his and Sherlock's marriage certificate. They had briefly discussed civil partnership instead, but opted for the marriage option - mostly because John had every inclination of standing up in front of their small group of friends and family, exchanging vows, and speaking the words he'd always wanted to. Mycroft agreed that it was the better option, but he didn't tell them that until after it was done, for which, just given Sherlock's oppositional nature to his brother's very existence (let alone his opinion), John was extremely grateful. All it would have taken to throw a halt to the proceeding was for Sherlock to hear ahead of time, that Mycroft actually approved.

The marriage certificate had been all duly signed, registered, witnessed. Rosie and Sameer had signed it during the ceremony too, underneath the actual legal witnesses. John smiled at these papers, remembering, enjoying what the paper represented. He and Sherlock, with their own twisted histories together, had also journeyed a few challenges along the way as Sameer got used to the idea, and although they'd tried to keep the ceremony and celebration low-key, for the sake of both kids and their small circle of very important friends, it had grown a little bigger than intended. A little party, dinner and cake. Mrs. Hudson clinking on a glass with a spoon to make them kiss. Exchanging rings. Molly and Greg having a debate on who knew about it first. Mycroft gifting them a honeymoon getaway trip. Rosie in her bright blue dress. Sameer looking dashing in a suit that Sherlock helped him pick out. They had come a long way, all of them.

And it had started very slowly. Back in the days when Sameer didn't even realise what kind of a relationship they were in.

++

Baker Street was pummeled with rain, big heavy drops that pinged and clicked on the windows. Now and again, there was the sizzle and hiss and rumble of thunder and lightening. It was either very late or very early, or technically both, and during this particular thunderstorm that was brewing, one especially close, loud bolt seemed to shake the flat until the structure creaked and complained. Rosie awakened with a startled cry, got out of bed.

"We should go downstairs. Come on," she ordered from Sameer's bedroom doorway, but didn't wait and shuffled down the stairs to the bigger bedroom. The safer, bigger bedroom where the noise wasn't so terrible and there were blankets and snuggles and maybe if she was very lucky, someone to rub on her back until the storm was over. And maybe if she was really _really_ lucky, she wouldn't get carried back to her room afterward. It was always a novelty to wake up in the big, tall bed, with big sleeping papas in pyjamas, and other people breathing, with shoulders for snuggling under, with covers and pillows that were different.

Trailing behind her was a tattered blanket and her stuffed bunny. The door downstairs was easy to open, hinges squeaking faintly, and she approached John's side of the bed as almost right on cue there was another thunderclap. Half awake already, he breathed deep, rolling over. He gave her a little hug, murmuring something about the storm and that she can stay for a little while. He turned, sliding Rosie, blanket and bunny overtop of him. Sameer stayed in the doorway, and just stared and stared.

"You can climb in too if you want." John lifted the corner of the covers.

Something about the way Sameer answered, the slow shake of his head, set off some sort of alarm in John's mind, and at his quiet no, it's all right, John pressed up on an elbow, his radar cluing him in that there was perhaps a storm brewing of a different variety. Sameer ghosted from the room, disappeared from sight. John sighed, swung his feet out of bed, and prepared to follow. There was more crackling and sizzling that seemed to travel a long distance outside, over their heads, and was punctuated a few seconds later by a sharp snap of thunder.

From the bed, "John?" Sherlock's voice was muffled and raspy, a far cry from the usual smooth speech.

A whisper returned. "Go back to sleep. It's okay." He heard Rosie squirming, the pillows being moved, the sounds of Sherlock making room and of Rosie taking over more than seemed reasonable for a three-year-old. The flat was otherwise quiet except for the occasional sound of the lousy weather, the stairs already empty. John eased the door closed behind him, padded lightly up the steps after Sameer.

He was huddled under his covers, the occasional rattle and flash that flickered from outside gave John plenty of light to see by.

"Does the storm scare you?"

Sam gave a half-hearted shrug of non-committal. "Loud. Just a storm." He didn't bother trying to use entire sentences at the moment and given the late hour, the storm, and Sameer's obviously being worried about something, John paid little attention to that as he hesitated in the doorway.

"Are you feeling okay? You're not sick?"

"Yes, okay." Sameer's eyes were wide and serious for a bit, and then he rustled around in the bed a little.

"What's wrong then?" The boy's head made a rumply sound on the pillow as he shook his head no in response. John made a somewhat fragile connection and hoped that his command of English was sufficient. "This was your first time into our bedroom, wasn't it?" A long, perfectly still moment built and hovered there, the absence of breathing or words communicating much as John could feel Sameer's tension. Finally, Sameer's previous side to side no became an up and down yes. "Was it a surprise, that there is only one bed?" There was a drawn-out pause and then another nod yes. John came closer, took a tiny edge of the bed as he perched there, and the rain pounded, thrumming against the window for a bit, a deep rumble and torrents of water making odd gurgly sounds through the gutters and down the glass panes. "It's big enough, there would've been room for you."

"I didn't know ..." he began, but then stopped. John searched his memory for how Sameer had lived there these weeks without ever going in there, without noticing, and couldn't specifically remember one way or the other.

"Are you upset?" John asked the question softly, and Sameer shook his head again, just a little. "You can say anything you want to me, you know. Or I can go get the computer, if we need." They hadn't used the translator application in a long time, but John didn't want to miss the opportunity if it was needed. Not about something this important.

"No." There was a period of silence, Sameer blinking, eyes wide and body tense and quite awake. There was another huge gust of wind outside, driving sheets of rain against the side of the building and whistling around the edge of the roof before settling back to a steadier, slower rain. John took a moment, brushed a warm hand over the lad's back, a soft reminder, an assurance of safety.

"Please, tell me what's bothering you?" Sameer frowned slightly, trying to process, and John clarified, "I want to help you understand, if I can." A soft breathy laugh. "I want to understand it with you."

Sameer rolled over then, on his side, so he was facing John, and he tugged at the sheet until it was tucked up under his chin. Both of them were quiet, mildly uncomfortable, and as John waited, he sat very quietly on the edge of the bed. "In my village, last year, before ..." and his voice trailed off, clearly he meant before his mother got sick. "Two men were ..." Sameer floundered a little, searching for a word that would work, settling on "... together. Like that. Taken away. There was a lot of yelling, shouting?" His inflection went up, questioning his word choice, and John nodded somberly, feeling more than a niggling sense of unease. "Then they were gone. I saw people in the streets. Everyone was upset. I didn't understand. Never came back. I wanted to go and find out what happened, to see what, but mama wouldn't let me." John tried to imagine what that must have been like, with such limited understanding at a young age, to grow up with a very narrowed cultural view. "I asked about it, but she didn't want to tell me. She said, maybe later. But I overheard things. And one of my friends said ... he told me ..." Pursing his lips at the memory, Sameer blinked a few times, and his exhale was accompanied by a shoulder shrug. "The house burned. The village leaders were very angry."

"I'm sorry." John knew he was treading lightly, that the belief system of Sameer's culture was not necessarily that of where he lived now. "Sorry for what happened." Carefully, John watched Sameer's face, and there were many thoughts that Sameer was trying to express, trying to figure out. Although the silence stretched out uncomfortably, John waited, sitting quietly, hoping for enough patience to know when - and what - to say.

Sameer gathered himself, and John could see the hard swallow, the anxiety in his countenance. His eyes glittered, wide and worried. His frown deepened. "Will someone come here, and take you away too?"

_Will someone come here, and take you away too?_

Oh, there was such distress and uncertainty in those words, and it very nearly caused John physical pain as he considered it. Sameer had already suffered enough childhood trauma, indescribable loss - his mama, his country, everything - and John could hear the deeply rooted fears in his words. But before John could gather his thoughts, Sameer was wriggling away, pulling the pillow over his head, burrowing deeper and fully turned away from where John still sat on the edge of his bed. His back was toward John and there were a few shakes to Sameer's shoulders as he attempted to calm himself, regain his control.

John tried not to sigh audibly, hurting for his son, for the way he'd had to grow up so fast, for the things he has had to worry about that children shouldn't have to. He was glad, again, that Sameer made it to London, that he had a family to help him. That he was safe. John could feel the fierceness of his need to care-take, to protect, bubbling up. His desire to fix things. Onward then, and he could sense the heaviness of the moment, one Sameer needed immediately and to carry forward with him.

"That won't happen here." John kept his tone even and light. "No. Here in London, in many places now, all over the world, it's not like that. People are ..." John stopped. He did not want to be critical of the viewpoints of countries like Afghanistan and was wishing he'd had a bit more time to suss out how to explain this. "It's different here, in this place and this time. Some families, some kids only have a mama, like yours used to be. Some parents get divorced, or separated, and there are two homes. Some children live with extended families like grandparents. And then, some families have two mamas, or two papas."

Sameer was still and quiet. John realised he hadn't directly answered the question.

"No, no one will come and take me away. Or take Sherlock away. We are all safe here." He lay quiet, but turned his head so that he could see John's profile in the mostly dark room. He was doing nothing but blinking - and searching for reassurance. "I promise you that." When Sameer was still silent, John asked, "Do you understand?"

A faint nod came first, one of heartfelt understanding. "I'm glad," Sam whispered, "because I don't want to lose you, too."

John swallowed over the sudden, thick lump in his throat, grateful that he didn't need to respond out loud. Tapping gently on Sameer's arm, he gestured in a brushing motion with his fingers that he should move over, to slide over on the bed, to make room. There were a few adjustments of the covers, and they lay there, John's feet hanging way over the end of the bed but in peaceful companionship, listening to the rumbling storm move overhead and finally grow more distant.

A few days later, on the weekend so there wasn't school or other early responsibilities to attend to, John and Sherlock were up and about in the kitchen. There was tea, toast, and soft discussions about things to do later in the day, routine stuff, and the assignment of tasks grew to teasing appreciation of John's latest custom blend of tea. A threat of lip-tasting turned into an embrace, the full frontal hug turned into a bit of a rub, an invitation, a promise when they could hear feet on the stairs, descending, invading.

With a sigh, John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's jawline, muttered quietly, "Timing." When he moved to draw away, as they usually did just out of a sense of privacy, Sherlock halted him with a low protesting groan and a tightening of his arms behind John's back. Their recent conversation still quite on John's mind, he couldn't help but bristle at the idea of even this very mild public display of affection. He was not looking to draw any additional attention to their lifestyle as Sameer got used to the idea. He tried to pull away, but Sherlock held him fast. There was a shushing sound, a reassuring pat of Sherlock's hand behind John's waist.

The children tumbled into the kitchen, talking about breakfast cereal and what was on the telly in the mornings. John ceased his attempt to dislodge himself while Sameer drew up short when he saw the rather unusual embrace. Rosie paid them no mind and pulled a chair over so she could reach onto the worktop. "You want this kind?" she asked Sameer, "or this one?"

Sameer resumed his normal posture, answered Rosie, and John manoeuvred himself to a point where he could pinch Sherlock just slightly as he stepped back, their arms sliding apart but touching until their fingertips brushed apart. "Good morning," he said by way of greeting, patting two heads of very different hair colours. "Maybe don't have too much. I was thinking, maybe after the adults have finished their tea, that maybe, just maybe, you know, it's Saturday, and we haven't done it in a very long time, but ..." and he knelt down, drawing the words out long, waiting for Rosie to remember.

She did not disappoint. "Pancakes!!!!" Her excitement was worth it, and she began to list all the shapes that John had tried to make last time. "I want mouse ears ones, and then a mag-ifine glass one, and then a snowman!" John was still chuckling when she stopped mid list of demands to add, "And this time, don't break off the snowman's arms when you turn him, papa."

++

Sameer didn't seem particularly troubled by their relationship, although they didn't confront it directly often. There were a few times that John made sure to prepare him for school projects or discussions about families. They talked about mother's day, and that they could celebrate it any way Sameer wanted. John tried to prepare him for some sort of tactful answer when someone instructed him to take a paper home to his mom and dad, or even just asked about his mother.

There was one mildly uncomfortable discussion that followed a news media announcement about a famous celebrity coming out as bisexual. Up until that moment Sameer didn't know what the term meant nor that it even existed. Both Sherlock and John answered his few questions, but only Sherlock was watching him carefully for the instant that it clicked, that some people have preferences for either or perhaps sometimes felt attraction for both genders, and he could tell the moment it clicked for Sameer. He looked at John, Rosie, a collection of photos that included Mary and Rosie, then the one of the family as it currently was. A wide smile, a sparkle of his Watson-eyes, and a satisfied stare back at John as if he now understood. "Ohhhhh," he finally said, nodding to himself, the word long and drawn out.

"Exactly." Sherlock had chuckled, turned back to his paper.

John had missed the whole non-verbal display. "What?"

Sameer and Sherlock met eyes, but it was Sameer who finally spoke the word again. "Bisexual."

One such time however, when there was no warning and no time to prepare, they were out simply returning home from dinner. The kerb was crowded and there was some shoving ahead of them. Jostling and trying to simply stay out of the way, an angry young man happened to catch sight of them and as he pushed past them - thankfully on a mission to go somewhere else - and despite John's attempt to get between his path and that of the kids, there was a quick moment. The man took them all in, seeing in a flash the family, the two of them, and as he shoved past, happened to become even more agitated, come closer to where they were walking, and unleash a few derogatory words.

Rosie didn't seem to really catch the word, so intent she was on staying out of the way, watching the people and the bright clothes and keeping an eye on the barking dog, but Sameer heard it loud and clear. The question was visible on his face but had not yet been spoken aloud when John held up a cautionary hand to him. "When we get home, okay?"

It didn't take him long to bring it up, and John was grateful that Rosie seemed otherwise occupied. "What's that word mean, that he said, a ... poof?" Sameer asked his question quietly, sensing out of context enough to keep it at a lower volume.

_"A homophobic derogatory term spoken by a narrow-minded miscreant likely suffering from undersized genitalia with Kinsey scores probably in the mid-range himself."_ Sherlock spoke the sentence entirely - and intentionally - too fast for anyone save John to understand it.

"What?" Sameer had heard Sherlock do that a few times to other people but hadn't been on the receiving end himself.

"Nevermind." John chuckled, hoping that it would be enough of a distraction. "Ignore him. It's ... basically a rude word that -"

"A _very_ rude word." Sherlock's diction could be clear when he wished.

"- people who don't know better might use to describe two men in a relationship."

The boy's eyes got really, hugely wide. "He was talking about you? He said that to _you?" _He muttered a rather emotional phrase in Dari then, which brought both John's and Sherlock's heads up tall in surprise. Sameer didn't get aggravated too often, but apparently he didn't like other people maligning his family. "I don't know how ... I want ... why didn't you ...?"

Sherlock, his bright blue eyes positively twinkling as he approached the subject, put his hands out in a calming gesture, as if not to get excited. "You might be looking for, 'how dare he say that?' Something like that?"

"Yes, exactly."

"It's okay. There will always be criticism or something. It doesn't bother me, exactly." John tried to downplay it.

"It used to." Sherlock's eyes met and held John's when he looked over, but it wasn't a glare or a particularly emotional statement. Unrushed, he looked over at Sameer, to clarify. "So if it bothers you, that's okay. But there'll be a time when you just overlook it. No matter what, some people are still going to be idiots."

John couldn't stop the sigh and the unconscious way his head fell back against the wall with a thunk, eyes closed. Even though he agreed with Sherlock, he felt the need to explain further. "Idiot is another rude word, actually. So take that under advisement that it - either of those words, actually - aren't words any of us should really use."

"I disagree. There are times when the word idiot is necessary." Sherlock's eyes were bright again, the edginess of the conversation exciting him. "It's less rude than poof. I could give you some other examples of words more rude if you --"

_"Sherlock,"_ John said low, not quite a threat but almost. John tried to lessen the intensity of the conversation, and glanced at Sameer, who was thankfully paying attention to him and trying not to laugh at John's frustration with Sherlock. "Does the phrase 'choose your battles' make sense?" Sameer tilted his head as he thought about it, but a moment later he shook side to side, no it doesn't. "It means only getting upset about the important things. It means letting some things slide off you, not bother you, because it's just not worth it. Choosing which things to get riled up about."

"Like when Mrs. Hudson visits and catches us with a mess, and then she offers us tea?"

"Yes. She still gives us that look, though, yeah?"

"And like what you just did about the word idiot."

"Exactly, because explaining something to you is more important than winning this battle between Sherlock and me."

Sherlock raised a haughty brow, and a small smirk appeared as he rose to the occasion to give John grief. "That's because you're an idiot and don't seem to realise you can win _both_." The fact that John did sometimes seem to have to parent three children was not lost on him, again - some days it was worse than others - but Sherlock was by far the most skilled at pushing his buttons, getting a rise out of him, and occasionally being too cute and clever to reprimand too severely. Although Rosie and Sameer mostly wanted to do the right thing, to please John, Sherlock on the other hand, enjoyed being blatantly defiant some of the time.

"That is quite enough, ta very much," John said, but he was chuckling at Sherlock's impish words, delivery, and pouting expression on his face.

In the past, when John had taken Sherlock to task about the word idiot, usually Rosie picked right up on it and repeated it until bedtime. Tonight, John felt cautiously optimistic. Rosie hadn't been paying too much attention, or so John thought. At the lull in the conversation, when they'd finished and moved on to other things, she raised her hand as if mimicking polite behaviour in school and waiting to be called on, recognised.

"Yes?" John said, smiling at her. He could easily imagine her doing this at her playgroup or at school.

She raised her chin, standing all of her short little sassy self as tall as she could, looked John directly in the eye. He prepared himself for something serious. "What's undersized genitalia mean?"

_Oh my._

++

Just under the marriage certificate were more documents from when Sameer first came to them, his scant medical records, his file that had been given them by the military liaison. He came to the folder containing Sameer's adoption papers, all signed, notarised, sealed, and bound. The report cover was seldom opened these days, and John could feel a warm glow inside as he did crack open the front page to see the certificate and legal writings. It included a notarised copy of Sameer's original birth certificate, listing both John and Laila, the date, and where in Afghanistan the birth registry had been filed though most of the writing was in Dari. The certificate of adoption had been issued on crisp, official beige paper and was much more formal looking, bold font, some gold-gilt edges to the form. It listed all the details of his birth - date and location, parents names, place of registry. Underneath the original particulars, the official register stated the adoptive parents as John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

Attached to it was the codicil, the amendment, specifying Sameer's request for a legal name change.

++

"So you're sure?" John had walked with Sameer down to one of the little cafes a few blocks over, where they'd ordered tea (one very light and sweet, the other hot and black). John had picked up a peach pastry to share, and Sameer was carefully uncoiling it, the layers falling apart in buttery, flaky goodness. "About the name you want to use."

"Yes."

"It's a big decision."

"I want it. Sam is a good name. It should stay Sameer, because mama gave me that name, but I want to be called Sam."

"I like it a lot," John tried it out a few times, then chuckled, "How does this sound: Sam, clean up your dishes, Sam, hang up your coat, Sam, get your shoes on and get your backpack, hurry, Sam, we're going to be late for school."

His eyes crinkled, laughing at John's antics, his examples. "It sounds good."

John chuckled harder. "How about, Sam, get me a cup of tea!"

A short burst of laughter came forth then, a belly-deep chuckle. "I even like that."

John sipped from his own mug and acknowledged, "This is good, but you make a pretty good cup of tea, too." He preened under John's compliment, knowing that Sherlock made a spectacularly lousy cup most of the time (which John thought was entirely intentional), and that Sherlock seemed quite inclined to exalt John's tea-making ability to somewhere between sovereign and miraculous. "Promise not to ask you too often."

"It would be okay." Sameer - _Sam_ \- John's observation was that he was smiling back. "The way you said it."

John repeated the phrase, quieter and fondly. "Sam, get me a cup of tea?" John's eyes crinkled back as Sam's laughter bubbled from deep in his throat. "A cup of tea _please_, actually. I really should always say please. It's more polite." A serious moment descended upon them both, and John smiled again, but a kinder and more gentler version, knowing his eyes were warm and Sam's expression was sincere. He nodded, adding, "Then Sam it is."

"Sam Watson."

John could almost feel his eyes misting just a little, the sound of the words together, the choice behind it, the meaning and belonging. He was slightly glad Sherlock had not accompanied them, because he would have noticed that transient display of emotion and mocked him mercilessly for it (later, he hoped). "I like that a lot too. And keeping, even having three names isn't uncommon here." Sameer - _Sam_, John corrected himself mentally again - listened intently, the question unspoken on his face as he sought clarification. "I have three names, John Hamish Watson. Sherlock has four - William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Rosie has three, Rosamund Mary Watson. It's good either way, and especially for you because you can keep all three of yours."

"Sameer Khalil Watson." With quick fingers, he grabbed at another curl of pastry, and they both were momentarily distracted with some noise there at the little cafe. "Just Sam."

With a nod, John felt that the little walk had been good. And necessary. A chance for them to speak without Rosie's intrusiveness and Sherlock's occasional restlessness. Or his occasional unwanted commentary. On a whim, John thought of something else related, and asked, "Do you know what any of your names mean?"

Looking puzzled, Sam shook his head, and John pulled out his tablet, did a very small amount of online searching. "In Afghanistan, in Dari, Sameer means evening conversationalist, it says."

"So I can stay up later now, find something to talk about, go to bed later ...?" He was trying hard to be serious, but the giggles overtook him as he considered how much trouble John already had getting Rosie to bed some evenings, and that Sherlock often had bizarre sleep habits. John worked hard not to make it a battle most of the time, but it did seem that everyone's sleep patterns had some peculiarities already.

"Were you born at night time, do you know?"

Sam shrugged, and with a small smile said, "Mama and I used to talk at night. She said I was trying to avoid going to sleep."

"I'm surrounded," John lamented, and they both grinned, before John turned back to the tablet and continued, a few more clicks and typing. "Khalil in your country, in Dari, means honourable," he said a moment later, a few more websites open. "That means, mostly, It's doing the right thing."

"Oh, I understand family honour." 

"I know you do." Now and again, they talked about Sam's mama and her family, and Sam certainly was aware that her decisions had not been easy, and in fact afterward had made things difficult. Although Sam didn't remember too many specifics, he certainly knew that Laila had been essentially disowned.

"Honour cost mama everything, didn't it?"

"But it gave her you," John reminded him with a heartfelt touch on the arm. "And you were so worth it, I just know it. And honour is so much more than that. It's respect and dignity too." The moment strung out, a final note of fulfillment on a full and robust chord at a concert, and when it had faded to nothing, John chased another link. "And Sam, well, it is often short for Samuel, in English, means 'heard by God,' or 'God has heard.' Which is I think very true, that you've been very watched over to this point."

"I was very alone when mama died."

"You aren't alone any more. And you won't be again." John scrolled with his finger on the screen, again. "Khalil in English has a different meaning: friend. You know, a mate. I like that, too."

"What does your name mean papa?"

"John is - I think it's got Hebrew origins ..." and he typed again, briefly, "Yes, here it is, God is gracious. Being gracious is another way to say kind and polite." John cleared his throat. "Guess I shouldn't yell or swear so much, yeah?"

"You don't yell _that_ much."

"Yeah, well, Sherlock's been better behaved of late."

"The swearing, though," Sam teased, pulling the pastry plate closer to him, then smiling across at John as he neatly polished off the rest of it.

"Yeah, well, I try. Especially in front of Rosie anyway." Also teasing, John made a pointless reach toward the empty plate and faked being disappointed that he was too late. "And my middle name, Hamish... I don't think Hamish has a meaning."

"You could look it up?" John shook his head, not terribly interested. Sam grinned, offering then, "You could get me a mobile, and I will look it up for you."

"Nice try."

The tea, along with the remnants of danish crumbs, was soon gone, and eventually John stood up, held out a hand to Sam. "How about, hey Sam, let's go home."

Sam's smile, the light in his eyes, simply radiated from inner happiness. "Yes please." John's smile in return, equally joyful.

They strolled back to Baker Street. One taller, one shorter. Both smiling. Father and son, John and Sam Watson.

++

John found a couple of miscellaneous notecards in the stack of things to be put away, and into the bin went a random birthday card from Harry that had arrived three weeks late. He recalled the way Rosie had explained his sister to Sam, that mostly they didn't see her, but that she was family. Rosie pondered something else then, and turned her head to look at some of the photos on the wall, of Sherlock and Mycroft with their parents when they'd been young, one of John and Harry from years ago, the framed Christmas gift that Sam and Molly had put together for John.

"We don't have much other family, do we?" Her question, innocent and with no intention other than stating a fact, was directed at Sam. "Do you have any brothers or sisters where you used to live?"

Sam chuckled a little. "I have you," he answered slowly. His words were true, and he was smiling.

That evening, when John was tucking him in, he smiled at Sam's mama's photo that was still in the place of honour right next to his bed. The topic from earlier, John thought perhaps Sam had been a little quieter that evening. "So do you think much about family, or maybe friends or something, from when you lived in Afghanistan?"

"Not too much."

Carefully, John brushed a hand over his leg, for comfort and grounding if nothing else. "I wouldn't know how to do it, really, but if you ever wanted to look into contacting anyone, we could ..."

One side of Sam's mouth went angling down, and he shook his head no. "I don't think so. And, I guess really, there isn't anyone left there."

"I know, but ..." John let the words trail off, knowing that if Sam was okay that pushing him was not wise. "Well, if you ever feel like you wished maybe you had a bigger family, or get lonely, we'll just invite Aunt Harry and Uncle Mycroft over more often. You know, for family entertainment purposes."

"Because_ that_ sounds like fun," Sam muttered with a sweet smile and a chuckle. If nothing else, he and Sherlock had made sure he understood sarcasm. And boy, did he ever.

In front of him, though, in the stack of papers, he came across a plain envelope that was neatly addressed to John. It had an Airmail stamp affixed to it. He didn't need to re-read the note inside just yet. He took another sip of his tea, remembering. 

++ 

A long way away, a solicitor knocked on a door in a small town outside Kabul.

"Do you bring news?" Sonya was still hopeful after all this time, and her dark eyes were bright and searching.

"This time, yes, I do." He was shown quickly inside, and they took chairs at the plain table in the eating area. "The boy was taken to London a few years back, after Laila passed. The Military Liaison thought he'd been reunited with his birth father, Captain John Watson."

"And?"

"They live in London."

A file folder was produced, and she took it. Somberly, the solicitor patted the paperwork. "Everything I could find. His address and contact information. I was able to locate him, as you instructed. The boy Sameer goes by Sam now. He turned ten a few weeks ago. He has a little sister, who is about five. Some photos." The solicitor knew the ice on which they were treading was thin and growing thinner, and that Laila's mother was likely going to have a difficult time with the rest of what he knew he had to disclose. "He looks happy, healthy. He's thriving there. He goes to school, some activities. Excellent grades. A very talented football player. Fast runner." 

Laila's mother opened the file. There were some type-written information pages, John's work, vocation, addresses, online presence, military service records. The photos have been deliberately arranged by the solicitor with the one sticking point at the very end. Included are a few zoom lens obtained candids of Sam walking, in the park, one taken at a restaurant seated between John and Rosie, laughing and happy.

"He has Laila's smile." Sonya's expression softened as she looked at a black and white close-up photo of Sameer. His dark hair was neatly combed, his smile and his eyes lively. Her words were tender as she looked, seeing the echo of her late daughter in this stranger's face, her grandson. "Oh look at him!" Her eyes grew just slightly moist. "He is handsome."

"Yes."

More photos. One of Sam playing football, and one where he is holding Rosie's hand as they cross the street. "The little girl is cute. Also Dr. Watson's child?"

"Yes." The man consulted his notes. "The girl's mother also died but there was not a lot of information on the circumstance surrounding that event."

"He has remarried?"

"Yes."

"Is there a photo of the entire family?"

"There is. But there's something you should know." The solicitor hesitated, then flipped to the final photo. It is one of the entire family. And it is quite unexpected.

_"What?!"_

++

John answered the knock on the door. Rosie and Sam were still seated at the table, finishing lunch. Sherlock was out. "Yes?" he said, still in the process of wiping his own mouth on a napkin, getting rid of the remnants of his own meal. He opened the door more fully to find two visitors, a woman standing there, a man next to her. She was older, trim, and stood boldly. She wore a long skirt in dark brown with a matching long-sleeved jacket, a head scarf, understated but elegant jewelry. The attire and skin tone, that of a Middle Eastern complexion, with dark hair pulled back.

There was a frozen moment full of potential energy, of strong forces, a sharp burst of cold on a hot day, the sensation of reaching the crest of a hill, two people toe-to-toe on either side of the door frame. Standing next to the woman who had knocked was the man, taller in stature but subservient in posture. The woman spoke, murmuring quietly, and the man, _a translator_ John realised, said, "We believe you are Captain John Watson?" A potential client would have been asking about Sherlock, then. Interesting that the reference was his military rank, which no one including himself really ever used anymore.

There was the beginnings of heart-pounding concern starting to bloom in John's chest. Toward the kitchen, where no one else had really noticed what was going on at the door, he said, "I'll be back inside in just a moment," then stepped through into the hallway and closed the door behind him. "Yes, I am." John wasn't entirely sure that he recognised Dari, but it could have been. John held eye contact with the visitor, searching, seeking, discerning. The woman's eyes had been looking into the room, but now holding John's remained bright, intense, and something much more. Perhaps there was something broken too. There were deep lines about her eyes and mouth, and in John's mind there was something also just a little bit familiar - and hurt.

John plunged forward. "Can I help you?" He had an inkling, perhaps more than that, of what this visit was actually going to entail.

The translator looked at the woman, who stood there. Her eyes connected with John again as the translator spoke, and then toward the door of the flat. There was more murmuring, Dari, he was almost sure, and John was quite aware that Sam had probably been quite visible from the door.

It was disturbing, the deliberate excluding, the intentional way they were leaving him out, and John hesitated only a moment longer, cleared his throat, and was going to address it when the translator grabbed lightly at his companion's arm and directly addressed John. "I'm sorry, if you could bear with us for a moment. This was harder than expected." A quick apologetic glance in John's direction, and there was another moment of eye contact. John almost felt badly for her, and he could see that his visitor was emotional, overwrought, experiencing some distress.

Or perhaps it was relief.

John could tell. He just knew it. He knew who this was at his door. He could picture clearly the photo by Sam's bed, and could see the resemblance in the woman's sad smile. He was glad the door was closed, and that the children were somewhat used to the presence of the random client from time to time. "Seems to me," John began, with an open handed gesture to get the translator's attention, "that I'm at a bit of a disadvantage, seeing as that you know my name." Words were spoken while John waited. "But I don't know yours. Although," John spoke with confidence, strong, standing tall as he spoke to the woman, "I do have a suspicion as to your identity."

The phrase was translated, and the glance was immediate to John's eyes and with something of a surprised look about her. Nervously, she said, "I am Sonya Zubair, and --"

Very solidly, John stood, simply waiting and listening, quite aware that he was in front of the door knob, both he and the door barriers of protection while he waited.

" -- and nine years ago, my husband did something very foolish." John considered putting words out there, stating or re-stating what had happened but for some reason, he didn't want to make any wrong assumptions. "I had - and lost - a daughter Laila."

John could feel his mouth go instantly dry - and despite the fact that he suspected, that he just knew the woman's identity - and immediately he worried about protecting Sam, worried about making waves, wondering what this woman could possibly want. On the heels of that thought,_ I know what you want._

"I see."

"Laila had a son. She named him Sameer."

Hearing his pulse thrumming in his ears, John stood quietly, waiting, while she considered each word and phrase.

"I'm not here to cause any trouble," were the next English words that were spoken. "For you or your son."

_You gave up the right to cause trouble when you turned your back on your daughter,_ John thought but didn't say.

"It is too late for Laila, I know. And her father, Ahmed, was a proud, proud man. He couldn't ..." She paused while the translator caught up, and then settled on the word, "... couldn't forgive." Her tone was flat and even. "He died last year. The doctor said cancer, but it was a broken heart too."

John murmured an_ I'm sorry, _at that point, and the translator made sure it was communicated.

"It is too late for him and for Laila, but not too late for me. And for Sameer."

"He goes by Sam now." For a brief moment, John toyed with the notion of using Sam's full name, as Sam Watson, but didn't. "He's ten."

"I know."

"You hired someone to find us?"

"I did. I haven't been able to rest, not knowing where he was." She waited for the words to be translated. "I knew he goes by Sam. And that he plays football."

"He does. He's very good at it."

They exchanged small, conciliatory yet genuine smiles. "He is happy?" the woman asked John.

"Yes he is." John could hear noise inside the flat again, chattering, the sound of regular activities, music playing. Sam was speaking, and Rosie responded, then both of them could be heard laughing. "You've traveled a long way. What exactly do you want?"

The question apparently caught Sonya off guard, and she stood, thinking, eyes downcast, her eyebrows doing their own little frowning action. "With your permission, your blessing of course, I would like to meet him. To say I am sorry. To tell him a little bit about Laila."

"I think actually, Mrs. Zubair, that --"

"Sonya, please."

"Sonya. That Sam is going to be the one to tell _you_ a little bit about Laila. He had her as a mama for almost eight years." John paused while the words were interpreted. "And she did an amazing job with him." In the next pause, John continued, and a softness bloomed in Sonya's eyes as the words were relayed. "He is a wonderful child. Resilient."

Following the softness in Sonya's expression came immediately something deeper, a sorrow and uncertainty, and she looked at John and then down toward the floor. "Not a day goes by that I don't regret what happened."

John had no appropriate words to say to that so he let the silence hang there for a moment.

Sonya seemed to relax just a little then. "I wanted to inquire long ago, to find you, but I couldn't defy Ahmed. And then it took months to get permission from my country, to travel."

Some loud thumping, unidentifiable noise, came reverberating through the door and John listened carefully to decide if intervention was immediately required. It settled for the moment. "Are you staying nearby? Because I should get back inside before they ..." _start shooting the walls_, he almost said but the joke wouldn't have been understood at all. "... get into mischief unattended."

The pair assured John that they had indeed checked into a hotel, that it was fairly close. An exchange of mobile numbers occurred, and the translator nodded that he would be able to facilitate a telephone discussion on speakerphone, and John had just pocketed the paper when the outer doorway off the street opened. Sherlock was returning.

With a small apology, John said, "I really can't let you come inside right now. Not without talking to him first."

"I understand."

"I'll be in touch. Let me talk to him, and perhaps we'll get together for dinner. I think he'll be willing. But let me explain things to him a little, let him get used to the idea." Sherlock, silent, ascended the stairs, and by the time John had finished speaking and the translator had done his bit, he was standing next to them. "I will let you know."

"I am most grateful."

"Ah, good, you're back. Sherlock, this is Sonya Zubair. She is --"

"Sam's grandmother, yes, I figured." For a brief moment, John worried that Sherlock was going to be caustic in his greeting, but he held out a hand to shake with the others. 

To Sonya, John turned and said, "This is Sherlock Holmes, my --"

John paused just long enough for Sherlock to interrupt. "Partner."

"-- husband." John clarified, overruling his less volatile description. His word was a statement without being aggressive, and it was followed by a moment of eye contact between he and Sherlock and then he turned to watch Sonya for her reaction. She smiled, a little tightly, but a smile none-the-less. _She'd already known, and come anyway, _he realised.

The translator spoke, gesturing faintly at each of them as he interpreted the spoken words. Sonya smiled, nodded. "I am pleased to meet you." She glanced at both of them, then nodded at the translator. "We will talk again soon."

From inside the door then came a complaint, and a distant pounding. Before any of them could be better prepared, the door opened and Sam stood there. "Papa, the laundry is making that noise again."

"You overfilled it again, John," Sherlock muttered, and they could indeed hear the unbalanced load making a terrible racket from down the hallway. "I'll get it." With his usual flourish, he stepped through the door, his coat sworling behind him. Sam stood just another few seconds there, looking briefly at John and the other visitors, then disappeared back inside.

Sonya waited until John had closed the door again before speaking. There was a bit of surprise, of shock, amazement even. "His eyes, I had seen pictures, but my god, they are so _blue_."

For a few seconds, John could feel both of the visitors staring back at him, seeing those very same eyes, the colour and shape, in John's face.

++

"Just dinner?" Sam was interested, and intrigued at the idea.

"Yes."

"Here?" Sam glanced around, and John nodded. "They traveled a long way just to have dinner?"

"They traveled a long way because she wanted to meet you."

"Did she seem nice?"

"She did. And it sounded like she wishes that they had handled things very differently." John squinted as he tried to remember the word. "She said she regretted what happened." When Sam'd had a few minutes, John glanced over at Sherlock before speaking to Sam again. "So you're all right with her coming for dinner tonight?"

Sam shrugged, then his eyes opened wide as he thought of something. "She's not here to -- I don't want to -- you're not --?"

"God no," John said quickly. "You live here, this is your home, with us. There are no plans for anything beyond dinner." John hoped the reassurance was clear and he could almost hear Sherlock muttering about an international incident and Mycroft's connections. "She is here to visit, that's all. I truly think she just wanted to meet you, say hello. Beyond that, there are no plans."

John waited a moment, until Sam's thoughts had settled and he was paying close attention. "You don't have to."

"No, it's okay." With unusual insight for a young lad, he frowned just a little. "I'm sure she misses mama too."

"Dinner will be fine, Sam. And we'll be right here. If things get awkward, or ... well if anything comes up, which is unlikely, remember that you can trust me to take care of it. But it won't, I'm certain." Sam nodded and his smile was more heartfelt than previously. John withdrew the mobile number from his pocket, set it on the table. "I'll call her back to confirm then. And I have a condition, which I'll explain on speaker. It's non-negotiable."

A few minutes later, the call rang through, and once they'd put both mobiles on speaker. "Dinner at seven," Sonya confirmed through the translator.

"We're just doing take-away. Easy and casual."

"Yes. Thank you."

John glanced at Sherlock, then at Sam. "I have a request, though." Pause, explanations in Dari. "All communication tonight is to be done through your interpreter. Sonya, I know you and Sam could easily communicate in Dari, which is fine and probably easier for you, but understand that, as his father, my job is to make sure he's safe, happy. To ... protect him." Pause again, and John watched Sam listening intently to the relaying of the messages, smiling a little at the familiar sounding language. "To do that, I want to, I _need to_, hear everything that's being said."

"That is fair," Sonya said through the interpreter. "I agree."

++

Sherlock snuffled quietly, knowing that although he was tired and could probably fall asleep in twenty-three seconds, John needed to debrief. He turned onto his side, seeing John's profile next to him in the bed in the almost entirely dark room. John lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His arms were up, his hands resting behind his head, his elbows bent and relaxed, over the edges of his pillow.

"It was a nice evening." John suggested as he opened the door a crack, ready to proceed.

_Finally_, Sherlock thought. "The translator certainly earned his keep tonight."

Softly, John snickered. "That he did." He turned to see Sherlock tucked on his side, eyes open, just watching. "Thanks for helping keep the house in order. And for ..." he hesitated.

"Are you trying to say thanks for not being impolite, acerbic, and hostile?"

"Perhaps I am. Because those terms would be so out of character for you."

"I'm entirely too fond of Sam to have made this evening hard for him."

"Then I'm glad Sam was good with this, that we didn't just meet as adults first. Who knows what you would have done if Sam weren't a factor."

"That's not why Sonya came to London, to hang out with us. She wanted to see Sam. To make amends." Sherlock, predictably, added one word to the end of his opinion: "Sentiment."

"It had to be awful for her, wanting to keep a connection with Laila in a culture where she couldn't oppose her husband." She had let enough details be known, and although she didn't state all of that directly, it was enough that they could understand what had actually occurred.

"Patriarchal nonsense."

"It's all they've ever known."

"Doesn't change that it's patriarchal nonsense."

"I don't disagree. But it sounded like she had no other choice, or at least felt like she didn't, until her husband had died." John stretched, bringing his arms down a little, his mind and body settling from the concerns and vigilance that the evening had required. "Sam did very well tonight. It couldn't have been easy."

From the opposite pillow, John could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, and there was a mild huff that accompanied it.

"What? It could have been hard for him."

"John." The name was spoken fondly but with the underpinning of over-indulgence. "He handled it fine because_ you_ handled it fine. You know, I've heard you credit Sam with being resilient."

"Yes. He is."

"And so is Rosie, for that matter." Sherlock's toe crept across the sheet to tuck under John's calf. "Where do you think they get that particular trait from?"

"I suppose. Wait, is this you giving me a compliment?"

"No. This is me simply observing." His voice was relaxed, tired, a little gravelly. "I take credit for at least some of it. Because I think you learned much of your own resilience from my influence."

"From what you put me through, you mean."

"Tomato, tomahto."

Sighing, John turned so that he was on his side, a hand coming out to rest over Sherlock's ribs, and a few turns later, John's back was pressed against Sherlock's front, arms loosely clasped, the touch of a thigh, the press of a muscled calf. Comfortably warm body heat radiated between them.

John angled his head back into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "So I think you might have just admitted that our behaviour is important because the kids pick up on it and emulate it."

"So?"

"So you should stop using words like idiot and underdeveloped genitalia." Even from that conversation long ago, now and again Rosie still asked the question just to get a rise out of Sherlock, who found it amusing while John continued to divert her on to another subject.

"I never said underdeveloped. I said undersized. Get your facts straight."

"And you should fuss less and not be such a dick to people."

Sherlock couldn't stop the quick burst of a laugh. "Speaking of undersized genitalia, you mean?" Sherlock nuzzled John's shoulder with his chin, then wriggled his body deeper down under the covers. "Or oversized would be more complimentary."

John's shoulders shook as the chuckle bubbled up through his chest, roughly, the sounds muted and absorbed by the linens, the pillow, their positions. "Stop it, I'm trying to be serious, and you're --"

"You're not undersized either, by the way," Sherlock whispered, his hand snaking down along John's chest only to be snagged by John's quick grasp.

"I mean it," John breathed, and Sherlock left his hand right there inside John's, their mood unwinding, softening a little.

Sherlock pressed a quick kiss against John's shoulder. "That's what you're needed for, to offset my abysmal social skills, make sure to keep us all right."

"I could use some help now and again."

"I think we make a good team, just for this reason," Sherlock reached up to force John's head back on the pillow, as if telling him that this has been enough talking, time to go to sleep now. "Now try to get some sleep. God knows you're grouchy when you don't get enough."

++

There were two envelopes, actually, in the same handwriting. One had been sent almost immediately after dinner when Sonya and the interpreter had come to London. The other, some months later. John took another sip of his now-cold tea before opening the quite familiar messages.

_Dear Captain Watson,_

_Thank you so much. For your hospitality and everything else. For being Sameer's family. Truthfully, I was a little prepared not to like you or your lifestyle very much, but you, Sherlock, Rosie, and Sameer of course are all so wonderful, I could do nothing but be amazed and humbled. All of you have taught me much. I'm sorry for my honesty here, and did not mean to be hurtful. I'm glad he has two loving parents, and a sister. His family is complete._

_I enjoyed dinner, and thanks again. Please keep in touch - and with your permission, I will do the same._

_Sonya_

++

_Dear Captain Watson,_

_Thank you for your recent letter and the gifts from your family to mine, and especially for the photos of Sameer. Sam, sorry._

_I am so grateful that he is so loved by his family._

_You have been so open to staying in touch, and your generosity has been both unexpected and so very kind._

_I can definitely understand why Laila chose you. I miss her so much._

_I feel I should tell you that my physician has found something. I have had headaches, a lot of medical testing, and he uses words like aneurysm and they have not given me much time. I am thankful that I traveled when I did, those months ago, to meet you and Sam, because it would not be possible now. When the time comes, and you explain all this to him, please remind him of my love for Laila and for him, and please give him another hug from his Maadar Kalaan._

_While I consider the future with some fear, I do look forward to being reunited finally with my Laila._

_Sonya_

++

John contacted Mycroft immediately, relayed all the information that he and Sherlock had available, requesting an update. He extended an offer of medical help if remotely possible. He waited only a day before getting any feedback from his brother-in-law. Although he had indeed found Sonya, it had been unfortunately too late. She had passed very peacefully in her sleep a few days previously.

++ 

The paper clutter built up on the desk again from time to time. Bills, school reports, certificates, appreciative letters from clients, and the occasional cease and desist notice from neighbours. A notarised statement from Mycroft informing them that further unauthorised credit card usage was not going to be tolerated and that retribution would be swift and severe and personal. The occasional photograph or newspaper article featuring Sam playing football. Sometimes Sherlock would leave his completed London Telegraph crossword puzzle, filled out in ink, in the pile. John would find it, mutter the words show off, and put it in an ever-growing folder marked Sherlock. 

**Author's Note:**

> I think one of the team activities that Sam's football team did was a shoe drive for developing countries. Team members, their families, and people who heard about it, brought their donated, hand-me-downs, and used but usable gear and John had it packed and shipped to areas of need. I'm sure they appreciated the slightly worn bright yellow shoes that Sam outgrew before the next season even started.
> 
> And I think John probably rescued every pair of shoes that Sherlock threw out and donated them to a homeless shelter in London somewhere, in memory of Laila and her holey shoes.
> 
> ++
> 
> Hamish is an old Scottish name that means supplanter (one who overthrows). It could - apparently - also be a variant of James. I'm sure before too much more time goes by, Sam will have his own mobile. Probably in response to some emergency or other. I think it might have been from Uncle Mycroft.
> 
> ++
> 
> Rest in Peace, Sonya. You are entitled, and you have earned it. I chose not to address Sam being told that particular news or his reaction, but we can all trust John Watson to be gentle and supportive. Resilient, remember? Also, I'm fairly certain there would have been an inheritance too. John and Sam may have started a foundation called Laila's Legacy. As soon as I thought about opening the door on the rest of this post-story plot, it got even more complicated. For me, these details are enough. <3
> 
> ++
> 
> There is still a little clean up to do here, but I'm happy enough where it is and wanted to share it. Please let me know gently if you find a typo or something unclear. Thanks for reading. Squint if you must at some of the details. [45 minutes after posting, a whole bunch of minor edits made]
> 
> ++
> 
> I'm sure there were other things in that stack of papers on the desk that sent John down memory lane too. Perhaps a receipt from an exclusive London jewellery store (for their engraved wedding rings), an owners manual from something battery operated (use your imagination), a threatening letter from Mycroft about Sherlock's defamation of character (or his weight). Perhaps a photo or two from some family vacations and one that Sherlock took of John when he was asleep, you know, the one where the sheets are rumpled and so is John's hair. The romantic in me would probably tuck in the deed from the Baker Street building that Mrs. Hudson will of course sign over to them far, _far_ into the future. Sigh.
> 
> ++


End file.
